A Grey Spring
by Rebel-of-Spades
Summary: Sequel to A Red Winter. Sansa and Sandor continue to travel together as Sansa realizes she has a lot to learn before returning to Winterfell.
1. Chapter 1

It was the lack of warmth beside him that drew him forth into wakefulness. Only a moment was required to remember where he was. The crimson wood of the weirwood shone like fresh blood in the moonlight as it filtered through the hollow trunk of the tree. The storm had ended and the night sky was clear and bright. The constellations shone down upon the world, and with the help of the full moon, lit up the forest with almost unnatural blue light. His knees creaked and popped as he got to his feet, using the side of the tree for support. Sandor worked the stiffness from his joints as he peered out into the night, searching for his little bird.

Normally her absence would have induced panic and swift anger. Not in this place, however. He wasn't sure if the serenity came from the location, or the sudden fulfillment of years of longing. Luckily he didn't even have to leave the tree to find her.

She knelt before a different weirwood, head bowed in prayer. Her hair fell about her face in soft waves, ignited in a soft glow by the moonlight. It wasn't brushed, and had tangled in the back, but he doubted if she'd ever looked lovelier. The sweet innocence that came naturally to her had not been totally destroyed by the taking of her maidenhead, it seemed.

The tree she knelt before had its eyes closed and a smile on its carved lips. It was just like her to look for the most benevolent face. He wondered what it was that she was praying for, and if this meant she was giving up the seven southern gods and returning her faith to the old gods from her childhood; the gods that her kin worshiped before their untimely deaths.

_If we're going south, we'll need the prayers now. The further we go, the fewer weirwoods we will come across. The old gods have no power where they do not have eyes. _The thought brought him no comfort, but neither did it bother him. He was not a pious sort. No gods had ever really listened to him, save once. He would never admit it to anyone, but he still thanked the Mother every morning for returning Sansa from the arms of the Stranger.

She prayed for a long time, and he was loathe to disturb her in her prayers. Instead, he contented himself with watching her. It was a skill he had learned a long time ago. Being the sworn shield of Joffrey had taught him many things. He learned to seek out flaws and weaknesses, to sniff out threats if there were any to be found, and to do both of those things with no more than a glance. Who better than a dog to accomplish such tasks?

There were no flaws or weaknesses he didn't already know about with Sansa, and he was well aware of all the threats she posed. Hadn't he gone over them endlessly in his head for days at a time? He watched her for a different reason now. His eyes noted the slender curve of her waist, the long, delicate fingers she had pressed together, and the small hint of color on her cheeks from the chill in the wind.

He saw faint traces of the child she used to be, like the way she would chew on her lower lip when something troubled her thoughts. More often he saw the woman she was becoming. The strength in her chin when she made up her mind and set her jaw, the way she had better control over her tongue when she saw something she didn't like, or the complaints of discomfort or exhaustion that she swallowed instead of voiced. She had been through hell and back and somehow still managed to hold her head high and walk with a certain unintentional confidence.

The thought made his scarred lips twitch in a faint smile, but it soon left his face. She was blind too, and that was a problem. What had transpired earlier that night should never have happened. As much as he wanted…needed her, they would need her maidenhood intact more. There was nothing he could do about it now, but he knew the repercussions of this would haunt them both in the future. It wasn't proper for a lady to do what she had done, especially with who she had done it with. If she was going to be Queen in the North, it wasn't going to be a good mark on her name if they found out that she had slept with such a lowborn dog.

Sansa seemed to feel his eyes on her, and she turned to look on him. A smile slowly spread across her face and into her eyes at the sight of him. No one in all of Westeros had ever been so happy to look at his twisted features and mutilated skin.

_Bugger being proper._

oOo

She was still praying when she felt his eyes on her, and she felt guilty. Sansa had taken pains not to wake him, but here he was anyway. He had never been a deep sleeper, but she knew that when she slipped into the night air that he hadn't stirred. It wasn't all bad though, she had been out here for some time before he came upon her.

Sansa finished her prayers and then turned to look at him. The darkness hid his scars, and he almost looked normal until he stepped forward into the light, bringing the harsh valleys and mountains of his scars into view. Once they had terrified and disgusted her…but somewhere along the way that had changed and they now brought a smile to her face.

"You prayed a long time," Sandor commented as she brushed the snow and dirt from her knees, and then strode towards him.

"I had a lot to pray for," she replied, thoughts returning to the things she had asked of the old gods. If they did not hear her here, then they wouldn't hear her anywhere.

"And what did they say?" he asked. Normally it would have been a sarcastic remark, but that didn't seem to be the way he meant it this time.

"Old gods or new, they never say a word," she sighed. The thought was sad. A reply from the gods was not something she had been taught to expect, but in such a sacred place she had expected something different.

"Did they chirp, perhaps?" he asked with a mischievous glint in his stone colored eyes and she felt her nose scrunch up as he teased her. Her expression drew a deep laugh from his throat as he tossed back his head. She took the opportunity to brush away the five fingered leaves from the ground before her and to scoop up a handful of snow. Once packed, she lobbed the snowball at him as hard as she could.

Her aim was true, which surprised her…but he was quicker. His hand came up to block the wet projectile and it splattered against his hand. Some slipped through the gap between his fingers and hit him in the forehead. This time she laughed at the surprised look he gave her. His brows pulled together in a scowl that would have made most people run away in terror. Instead she laughed again, and danced out of his reach as he tried to catch her arm.

"It's the middle of the night and you're playing games with me girl?" one eyebrow arched high as he gazed at her, his eyes hard and unyielding. She felt the grin on her face and a lightness on her shoulders she hadn't felt in what seemed like years.

"Mayhaps I am Ser," she teased right back. That got the reaction she was looking for as he gave a small growl and then followed her out into the open. She spun around and darted into the woods. It felt good to run for running's sake; too long had they been running out of fear. Sansa heard him give a curse, and then a small chuckle before his heavy footfalls came after her.

She weaved in and out of the white trees, mindful of the upturned roots she could, and could not see. He wasn't far behind her, but she had age and size on her side. Occasionally she would slip between two trees that his wide shoulders would be unable to pass through, and she'd use the opportunity to scoop up some more snow, and toss it in his direction. He got wise, however, and soon he was pelting her with his own balls of soft snow. She was not as quick at deflecting his projectiles as he was, but he never aimed for her face.

The game turned from a chase into an all out snowball fight. They both found shelter behind different trees and tried waiting each other out, or tossing when one or the other poked their heads out from behind the white bark. The weirwoods looked on with frozen expressions, indifferent to their antics.

It didn't take long for Sandor to win the game. After the first one she threw, she didn't have much luck in hitting him again. His aim was much better, and he was clever. His next snowball hit the branch above her head and sent a layer of heavy snow cascading down upon her like a cold, wet blanket.

She gave a startled shriek as she fell and the next thing she knew he was at her side, easily pinning her to the ground amidst the fallen snow. Sansa started to laugh and it took her a good deal of time to get a hold of herself again. It had been years since she had had that much fun. It may have been childish and not very ladylike…but she was deciding that she didn't really like being ladylike all the time. Plus, the amused look on his face more than made up for it.

"See, the gods don't speak, and they don't chirp either. I'm sure they would have said something about all that," she pointed out with a breathless grin as she glanced at the closest face. When she looked back at Sandor, the smile had been replaced with another look that sent her heart pounding again. Sandor leaned forward, pressing her into the snow a little more. He was heavy, but she didn't mind. The weight was reassuring.

"Then I suppose it is up to you to make your own prayers come true," he replied and pulled her into a kiss that left her unable to think of prayers, gods or anything other than the warmth of his body against hers as the snow started to melt beneath her.


	2. Chapter 2

He scooped her up off the ground and carried her back to their temporary shelter inside the weirwood, and took her for the second time. There was little pain this time, just a tender ache that was soon forgotten as she lay beneath him. It was not like the first time, in that his urgency to take her again made him rougher then before. She relished the feeling however, and when they were both spent she curled up at his side and her mind knew peace.

He must have felt the same peace, for he fell into the most restful sleep she had ever seen. Usually he would toss or turn and make some noise. If she moved, he'd usually open an eye to make sure that she was alright, or utter something only half intelligible. Tonight, however, he slept as he had fallen asleep; on his side with one muscled arm slung over her bare hip.

If she could have frozen time forever she'd do it in that moment. She fought sleep for a long while, trying to memorize everything she could, but sleep won out in the end and stole her away into a dreamless oblivion.

oOo

It was the sunlight, warm on her face that woke her. The deep, steady breathing of the Hound at he back told her that he slept still. She was all the more glad for it. The sun lit up the inside of the hollow weirwood in such a way that it looked as if it were afire. The swaying of the leaves in the wind made the false flames on the wall flicker and dance.

_Would that we could stay here forever._ She thought, but knew that they could not linger here. Today was the day they would leave the safety and peace of the Isle of Faces. They would venture back out into the cold world surrounded by winter and dangers aplenty. She could not predict what sort of things they would come up against, but if they were going south, then they'd need to pass by King's Landing. The danger of that alone was probably more perilous than anything they had been through yet. If either of them were caught, it would be a death sentence. No one looked kindly on deserters and kingslayers.

_I never killed him, but I will never mourn his death. The world is better without Joffrey Baratheon. _

Sandor stirred beside her and freed her from that train of thought. She rolled over to look at him, and couldn't help the smile that came to her face as he woke and looked at her.

"Good morning," she whispered as he pawed at his eyes with one of his big hands to wipe the sleep from them. A small, low grumble was the only noise he made at her, and she assumed it was his own form of a sleepy greeting. He then pulled her to him, almost roughly and buried his face in her tangled hair, breathing deeply as he tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep. She gave his arm a squeeze, knowing how he felt. She didn't want to acknowledge the day either.

They remained in silence for a while, just drinking in the morning, and each other. Usually he was the one to be up and to prod her into moving, but today the task fell to her. It wasn't easy to disentangle herself from him, but she somehow managed. Running her fingers through the tangles of her hair, she stood in the entryway of the weirwood and gazed out at the sunlight filtering through all the leaves of the godswood. When she had worked out the knots as best she could, her hands fell to the familiar task of braiding her hair, to keep it from her face, and in some semblance of order.

When she heard the soft cracks that came from his spine as he stretched she knew he had risen. She turned to him and stifled the yawn that threatened as he rummaged through their provisions to find what sort of food they would eat for breakfast. It turned out to be salted pork and the last of their long hardened cheese. They ate leisurely, but all too soon the food was gone and Sansa set about packing up their belongings.

"We could stay, if you wished it," he suggested, watching her with a neutral expression, his mood unreadable in his dark eyes. Sansa looked at him for a moment, then looked back out the door at the grove of weirwoods that surrounded them.

"No. We must leave today or I'll never get the courage to leave again," she murmured sadly. Half of her expected him to protest, but he knew as well as she did that the longer they stayed, the harder it would be to leave. When she turned back to look at him, all he did was nod.

They stepped out into the sunlight together, the only trace that they had been there at all were the slightly crushed leaves where they had slept and the faint footsteps at the brink where the snow peeked through the blanket of red. She took one last look at the colossal tree; the place she had given herself to him in the sight of the old gods, and turned away.

Sandor found Stranger wandering amidst the forest. The black destrier was easy to find in the sea of red and white. He gave her a leg up, then mounted behind. A light kick was all he needed to get Stranger moving. The pace he set was an easy one, to her relief. They might be leaving, but at least the ride out would not be spoiled by haste.

Sansa drank in the sights, looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She tried to burn everything into her memory, so she would remember this when they were long gone, frozen in some other place with no food and empty stomachs. No place could be half as peaceful as this one had been, nor would it hold half the special memories.

oOo

Sandor found himself concerned for his little bird as they wove between the trees. She had been unusually quiet and somber since she had started packing. He knew she didn't want to leave...and he didn't want to either, but he admired her resolve to keep moving. The Sansa he knew at King's Landing would have wanted to stay forever.

_That girl is gone. This is the woman that remains. You made sure of that last night. _The thought did not make him angry, for once. He had crossed the bridge, and it had burned behind him. It might have burned his heels as he went, but regretting it would not repair the damage. No, he would not soil the memory. It was one of the few good ones he had.

"Something is bothering you," he remarked suddenly. Usually she was full of incessant, but endearing chatter. Her silence was beginning to make him nervous. At his words, she gave a sigh of such sadness that it was almost heartbreaking. "Sansa?"

"I'm sorry. There's just so much to think about," she replied after a moment. Her words were slow, as if she was taking great pains to think them out before she spoke.

"Such as?" he inquired with a furrowed brow that he knew twisted his scars in a grotesque manner.

"I am supposed to be the Queen in the North, since my brother Robb left no heirs and I am older then Arya, and Jon has taken the black. I learned a great deal from Petyr, and I learned from my old septa and maester Luwin too...but I fear I know too little," she sighed again, then continued, "I know how I do not want to rule. I will not be like the Lion Queen," he heard the disgust in her voice as she spoke of Cersei, and he didn't blame her. He had no love for the cunt queen either. When she spoke next, her voice was sad.

"I only have a vague idea on how to run a keep, let alone something as vast as the North. I do not even know much about the smallfolk and how to rule them. I know little and less about anything that does not have to do with Westeros, but if I rule the North I'll have to know about more than just my land. We deal in trade from across the Narrow Sea, but I know so little of the cities that reside there. Even if I could find the people with such knowledge to surround myself with, I've seen how dangerous it is to trust anyone if you hold any sort of power. I'll never be able to trust anyone," her voice fell and he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Not only must I worry about all of that, but the Queen will never leave me alone. It will be more war, and more people dying and this time it will be my fault. She will claim that I killed Joffrey, and most people will believe her. Most already think I killed him, and who would bow before a traitor? They called my father a traitor and if I ever bear children they will be the children of a traitor and people will think they will be traitors too. I...I fear I'll never know peace again," she whispered the last sentence and in that moment he knew he loved her even more.

"If we do not return to Winterfell until spring comes around, we may have a good ten years on us. That will give you plenty of time to learn what you need to learn, and by then you will know how to rule. Knowledge is the easy thing, as long as you know where to look. Chances are when you finally return to Winterfell and take the throne, the Bitch Queen will not be ruling anymore. The war of the Kings is not over yet. Tommen is not Joffrey, and the Lannisters may yet fall to Stannis," he grimaced at the thought. Stannis was rumored to be a great soldier, but so had Robert and everyone knew how that turned out. She turned in the saddle as he spoke and listened. The sad look was still on her face, but her shoulders didn't sag as heavily as they had. She still wasn't certain of his words.

"If you do not wish to follow in the footsteps of the Young Wolf, no one says that you must. You can return as Lady of Winterfell and leave all the gods-forsaken kings and queens to play their game. One keep to rule, not the whole North. It is still an option. Nothing is set in stone little bird," he assured her the best he could. His words seemed to work for once, for the spark returned to her eyes and the melancholy cast to her fled like a raven taking wing. A small smile graced her lips and she nodded.

"I suppose you're right. It isn't a decision I need to make today, is it?" she asked even though she knew the answer. A frown appeared on her face again as she thought about his words.

"I should learn though, in case it is needed of me. Where should I go? I doubt anyone's written a book on how to be a good queen?" the wry look on her face made him chuckle. Such a book would be helpful indeed. He knew quite a few people in high places that would benefit from reading such material.

"The Citadel in Oldtown is where Maesters are made. We could start there," he suggested, wondering if it was a wise choice. The smarter people they were around, the more likely they would be recognized. Would such a thing really be worth the price?

"That's a long way, and we'd have to go close to King's Landing...right?" Sansa asked, a worried tone in her voice. The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere near the Lannisters, and she wasn't alone in that. He was just as eager to avoid them.

It would be folly to continue on the Kingsroad, that would take them straight into King's Landing and to a swift beheading. There was also the problem of crossing the Blackwater Rush. If they met up with the Goldroad, they might make the crossing there, and then they'd have to cut across the Reach. Then to the Roseroad and through Highgarden, which was Tyrell land. Were the Tyrells not in league now with the Lannisters...or had they simply taken most of the small counsel spots? Too long he had been out of King's Landing to know for sure. Sandor didn't know where their loyalties lay now.

After all that they would come to Oldtown, and he didn't even know if they'd find what they were looking for...but it was a plan. A plan was a good thing to have. It meant they would not wander aimlessly until Sansa decided she found a place she wanted to stay for a while.

"We could avoid King's Landing, but it will not be an easy, or a short trip to get to Oldtown. We will have to hide who we are again, and soon. People will still remember an auburn haired girl and a burnt old dog, like as not," he grumbled, answering her question after he gave their route some thought.

"I know how to hide, I am not worried about that. They make dye's to hide my hair, and they have helms and hoods to hide your face. Neither of us will like it, but it can be done," she bit her lower lip as she thought about it.

He gave her time to think in silence as they rode. Some things shouldn't be rushed. They continued onward and as they rode the weirwoods grew further apart. The trees on the outer rim of the Isle of Faces were thinner too, as if they had not had enough time to grow as large as the ones in the center had. Sooner than either of them wished, an opening appeared and they were at the edge of the Isle, surrounded by the frozen waters of the God's Eye.

Snow had fallen heavily on the outer edge, and the ice was covered by a thick layer of powder. A thin crust of ice shone brightly in the sunlight, and was almost blinding to look upon after the forest of red. Sansa sighed as she looked out at the flatness before them that turned into rolling, white hills in the distance.

"To Oldtown then," she decided in a strong voice that left no room for discussion. It would be a hard path, but that had never stopped either of them before.

"To Oldtown."


	3. Chapter 3

"There, with the heavy beard?" he asked. Sansa glanced at the man who was drinking heavily in sullen silence. He had no companions with him. She looked back at Sandor before answering him.  
>"A sellsword," she answered.<br>"Aye, what else?"  
>Sansa resisted the urge to look at the man again, and then answered his question.<p>

"He's a Flint. The sigil is the grey, stone hand. He's of low birth though, otherwise he wouldn't be here selling his sword," she closed her eyes momentarily, drawing an image of the man before her again. "He has found work recently...if he hadn't, he wouldn't be able to afford the stew...and he slouches," she opened her eyes and looked hopefully at Sandor.

"You're getting better, but closing your eyes made you miss the fact that I just stole your bread and that two people arrived. Sloppiness won't get you anywhere," he instructed as he consumed the bread he had taken from her. She sighed in frustration. They had been at this for a fortnight. If she wanted to learn about the people she may one day rule, she needed to learn to really see who they were at a glance.

At first she hadn't understood what he meant, and it had taken a good deal of time before he could show her. It had taken them almost a week before crossing the Blackwater Rush. It had gurgled and roiled beneath the crossing, as if impervious to the winter and frost. The river was aptly named. Sansa was certain that it would never freeze, no matter how harsh winter grew.

After the crossing, they continued on the Goldroad for a short time and there they had come upon a small Inn. They took a seat and he ordered mulled wine, and a hot meal. Before the food even arrived at the table he had told her all he could glean from the three other men in the room. By the time he had finished, he may have been able to write a small book. She had been shocked. Sandor had never let on that he caught so many things, and as he spoke he never once looked at the men he spoke of.

"You learn fast to look for danger when you're guarding someone. It becomes second nature after a time. Sizing up threats, planning out strategies for either a swift battle or hasty retreat...if you are unobservant, you'll not get far," he had told her.

She had seen the appropriateness of his words and decided it was a good thing to learn. So wherever they went and whoever they saw would become a lesson in observation. Most times it was nothing but frustration. At the beginning she would often guess; which would annoy him more than if she came up with nothing at all. She had lost count of the times he had snarled at her to open her eyes…and every time he said it hurt just as much as the first time. As much as she appreciated his help, he was an impatient teacher.

Usually she was a swift learner, and was not used to being reprimanded. She had always done better at her studies than her sister had, although she had never gotten the hang of figures. This was different though, and she wasn't used to being a disappointment…and she certainly didn't want to be a disappointment to Sandor. Instead of disheartening her, it gave her the resolve to try harder.

It had been a week since they left the inn where he first taught her. She had improved greatly since then, but still wasn't as good as he wanted her to be. His harsh remarks came less now, however, and that made her glad. Sandor wasn't heavy on praise, but she figured the lack of criticism was his own way of praising her.

The small town they had come across was simply called Tull. It was right on the border between the Lions and the Flowers, and when the left, it would be for the heart of the Tyrell land, across the Reach. As it was, Sandor decided that they needed provisions and a rest from the hard travel they had done. Stranger was getting dangerously thin and needed a break. So they had been in Tull for three days thus far at an Inn called the Blooming Lioness, a tribute to both the lands it stood between. Sandor oft remarked about what a stupid name it was, which made her smile despite herself.

"The newcomers?" he asked, drawing her forth from her thoughts. Sansa glanced at the door as three people strode in, and felt a sudden heaviness in her heart. Her eyes returned to the bowl of stew, thick with grease and floating bits of some unknown meat. She stirred it absently with her spoon, finding that her appetite had vanished. When she didn't respond to him, he cleared his throat.

"A family," Sansa replied at last with a note of finality in her voice. She stood up and then left him without looking back. He did not try and stop her, for which she was grateful. She wanted to be alone for now.

A serving girl with a bucket was coming down the stairs and Sansa stopped her and sent for hot water to fill her own bath. She might as well bathe while the luxury presented itself. It did not take long for the girl to return with another and to fill the small tub with hot water. She thanked the girls, and shut the door behind them, returning to her solitude.

Her thoughts turned to the three people she had seen; a mother, a father and their young daughter. All three were dirty and wore stained, threadbare clothing. They were all horribly skinny, although the young girl seemed to be a little less gaunt than her parents. They had been giving her a larger share of the little food they had.

The man had only one arm and a severe limp, which was probably from frostbitten toes. The shoes he wore were too thin and falling apart. The woman had a dead look about her eyes, as if she were just a shallow husk. She looked without seeing, and Sansa wondered what sort of trauma she had witnessed. Her daughter's hand was clutched tightly in her own, and she stuck so close to her husband's side that he sometimes stumbled over her. The little girl seemed no more than eight, but her eyes spoke of an older wisdom that came with hard living.

Yet, for all that, they were still together. They had seen hard times, and were still seeing them…but they had each other. The little girl still had her parents, and they still had their daughter and each other. It wasn't something she had often seen since the war had started.

It was something she hadn't known in years. Her family had broken and scattered into the four winds. They had been consumed one at a time by the flames of war, at the whim of lions, towers, mockingbirds and krakens. Even her bastard brother Jon was lost to her, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch the last she heard. The only one who might be left was Arya, and Sansa had no idea where she might be, or if she still lived.

The thought may have brought tears once, but her eyes remained dry. She was no longer a child, to cry at any slight or discomfort. She hadn't cried since the Isle of Faces, three weeks ago. It was hard to believe it had been that long since they had left.

With a heavy heart Sansa stepped out of her dirty garments and checked to see if her other outfit was dry. She had washed it herself just the day before and it had finally dried out. That being done, she tested the temperature of the water with one hand, then, deeming it safe, she slid into the water. It embraced her like a lover and she felt her eyes slide shut as she gave into the sensation.

oOo

She woke when she heard the door open and she turned to see Sandor enter. She hadn't meant to fall asleep but the warm water had been so relaxing. It was less so now. Her neck was sore from the hard back of the tub, and when she reached up to massage it, her fingers had wrinkled in a most unattractive manner. The water was cold and she brought her knees to her chest, hugging them as he shut the door behind him.

"Can you hand me the towel?" she asked and he shook his head.

"No, there is business to attend to first," he replied as he set down a wrapped parcel. She frowned as he pulled out a small pot. He opened it and dipped his fingers inside, bringing out a thick, black paste. It smelled like nothing she had ever smelled before, although it did have a faint hint of something that smelled similar to ink. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but she grimaced anyway as he unceremoniously smeared the paste into her hair. By the look on his face, he didn't much like this either.

He massaged the paste into her long hair and she closed her eyes to the feeling of his fingers on her scalp. His touch was gentle but firm and she felt her eyes slide closed again. Neither of them spoke for a long while, but finally she found her voice.

"I didn't mean to run off on yo—"

"I understand," he cut her off and she realized that she didn't need to apologize. He knew why she had gone and he wasn't going to condemn her for it. She was grateful, and also felt slightly guilty. Sandor had lost his family long ago, and he didn't let it affect him so. Not that he usually let most things affect him. Maybe that was the next thing she'd ask him to teach her. She knew she often wore her emotions plainly on her face. There was a time it had attributed to many a beating.

"Dip your head back, I don't want to get this in your eyes," he instructed and she leaned her head back into the cold water and he massaged the paste from her hair. It seemed to take ages, and her back and neck were sore by the time he finally told her to sit up. He got a little more paste on his fingers and rubbed it into her eyebrows. She sighed deeply. When he was done, she washed it off her face herself, and when she was finished she stood up and shivered as the air hit the cold water on her skin and made her break out into goosebumps.

He brought a tattered towel over to her and wrapped it around her shoulders. She stepped out of the tub and went to stand by the small fire in the hearth. As she dried herself off, he watched. Soon she grew uncomfortable by his gaze.

"Does it look that bad?" she asked over one shoulder, worried that he had ruined her hair. Her question seemed to amuse him and he shook his head.

"No. If I hadn't known your original hair color, I would say you were made for black hair," he gave a small chuckle and handed her a small, handheld mirror. It was cracked and warped, but it would do. When she saw her hair she gasped. It was as if she was another person. The hair on her head was jet black and without any trace of the auburn it used to be.

"Seven hells," she breathed, turning her head this way and that. It wasn't a look she was used to, but it wasn't bad. "My own mother wouldn't recognize me," she murmured in awe as she looked back at him and he nodded his approval.

"I believe that is the point, little crow," he teased and she flung the towel at him. He batted it aside easily with a short barking laugh, and then was at her side. His lips descended on her neck and he took one breast in each hand. All the sad thoughts fled from her mind as he walked her towards the bed, his lips still hot on her neck. She surrendered to him quickly, eager to lose herself in his embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor marveled at how easy it was to coax passion from her. Her eagerness to please, and her desire to be pleased had an urgency to it that he had never experienced from whores, and never expected to receive from anyone. Sometimes he still found himself awed that something so beautiful and good could love something so ugly and brutal. Neither of them had reiterated the confessions of love as they had at the Isle of Faces, but that did not bother him. He had heard the truth in her voice, and seen the earnestness in her eyes. It was all the affirmation he needed.

What surprised him was the fact that she didn't constantly need the reassurance of his feelings for her. He had pegged her as the type to need to hear the words as often as possible, just to make sure that the feelings still existed. It was a pleasant surprise, especially when trying not to be conspicuous in public. There were eyes and ears everywhere, and no one could really miss them, so keeping quiet was vital.

Keeping her quiet in the throes of pleasure was a more challenging task. She gasped and moaned as he took her. Sometimes she'd whisper his name, but more often she'd just allow her pretty eyes to roll into the back of her head as she groaned wordlessly and arched her back.

"Quiet your chirping, little bird," he murmured into the soft skin of her shoulder as he pushed into her again and again. She did her best to hold in her little sounds, but occasionally he had to clamp a hand over her mouth anyway. Somehow that seemed to excite her more, and she responded in kind by rising up to meet him with each thrust. The seven heavens had nothing on this.

When they were both spent, they fell into an easy silence as she snuggled against his chest and pulled his scarred arm over her naked torso for warmth. Her eyes slid shut and she rested there, skin still flushed from her passion. Sandor watched her for a while as she dozed off, the dark hair spilling across her shoulders. It was a drastic change, and he didn't much like it. She was still beautiful, and the dark suited her and made her eyes stand out, but he preferred the auburn.

Sleep did not come easy for him, however. There were plenty of things he still had to do before they left Tull for Oldtown, and he wasn't looking forward to it. They were running low on coin, and Sansa had already sold the last of her aunt's jewelry that had somehow made it all the way from the Eyrie.

He had not wanted her to sell a family treasure, but the sour look that came to her face when he mentioned her aunt got him asking questions. She had told him of her aunt Lysa and the madness that claimed her, and of her murder. Sandor was not surprised. There was a darkness within Petyr Baelish, he had always known, but rarely saw come to fruition. Sansa had no love for the mad Lady Arryn, and had no qualms about selling her jewels. Sandor was grateful for it later, for the jewels went for quite a price and allowed them to stay comfortably for some time.

That was a while back, and now they had little left. He was going to have to make some changes, and the prospect did not cheer him. He stared into the darkness for most of the nights, lost in thoughts as Sansa dreamed unaware on his chest.

Finally the restlessness overtook him and he slowly untangled himself from the sleeping girl at his side. She stirred and he encouraged her to go back to sleep and for once she did. He slipped out the door as quietly as he could so not to disturb her, and went to take care of the unpleasant business at hand.

oOo

"You sold him," she managed after her initial shock, but was unable to keep the horror from her voice, or the sorrow from her eyes. Sandor's gaze was hard as he shrugged abruptly with one shoulder, handing her the reins of a half blind, tawny mare that shied away from her into the grey courser that he had in his own hand. Neither had been properly brushed in a long time and their fur was matted and caked with mud and sweat.

"He's too fine for who we say we are, and he's known well enough in the south. I won't risk it, and the coin was decent. The mare spooks easy, but is quick and the other was the only that is strong enough to carry my weight for a fair distance," his tone was rough and had an edge to it that told her that he was more upset about this than he let on. Stranger had been his for many years, and was as much a part of him as his scars were.

"I'm impressed you could sell him at all with that temper," she managed while soothing the mare as best she could.

"I gave him a nice big drink of ale before I sold him. He gets almost placid after drinking ale. Enough at least so he wouldn't bite the buyers hand off," the corner of his mouth twitched in remembrance, but that was all she could get out of him as he mounted up.

She followed suit, trying to get used to having enough space in the saddle to be comfortable. Usually she was crammed up with Sandor on Stranger's back. If she had known that the last time they rode would have been the last time they ever would have rode the savage beast, she might have cherished it, instead of being grateful to be out of the saddle. She would miss being pressed up against Sandor as they rode.

Sansa reflected on everything Sandor had done to get them ready to enter Tyrell territory as they rode away from the small town of Tull. He was in charge of getting the supplies, and she had been in charge of the story. It was another of his lessons, and when she finally had the story down, and told it to him, he looked pleased with her work.

She was going to be Lily Wintersong, the youngest daughter of a family with no sons from a small northern hold called Stonetree located deep in the Wolfswood. She would be traveling south with Aras Snow, the bastard son of the master of arms. He would act as her bodyguard, and his training with his father would explain his skill with a sword and how strong he was. They were going to Oldtown to try and find a maester to come back to the North with them, for a dying maester of the North made a promise to them before he died to send a maester to Stonetree.

If anyone asked who the maester was that passed, she would tell them that Stonetree didn't have a maester, but an old maester appeared shortly after Winterfell burned, and he was Maester Luwin. He was horribly ill and they tried as best as they could to heal him of his illness, but did not have the skill. It was a risk she would have to take. A fake name for a maester would bring them nothing but trouble. She wished no ill to befall Maester Luwin, but she hoped that if he had made it out of Winterfell, that he had not gone back to the Citadel. That would surely ruin all their plans.

Sandor assured her that they wouldn't have to tell many people that part of the story. Most people were not that interested. They had their own woes and problems to deal with.

Sandor then told her his plan of becoming a novice to get a good look at all the maesters he could. She had to laugh at the thought of Sandor wearing robes and a chain, but he made it clear that he'd be out of there as soon as he possibly could, with a maester of his own choosing that would be the best for their cause. When she asked him how he planned on convincing a maester to join them, he just shrugged and told her that she didn't have to worry about that part, which, of course, made her worry twice as much. She hoped he wouldn't do anything too drastic.

oOo

Sandor frowned against the wind as it tugged at his cloak. The cold wasn't as bad down here as it had been in the North, but it was still unpleasant. His mount agreed and snorted loudly whenever the wind picked up. There would be no stealth involved on this leg of the journey, that was certain and it made him miss Stranger more than he ever thought possible. He was usually not one to be sentimental about such things. He lived a life where growing attached to something meant it would be ripped from his hands and destroyed.

_When will she be taken from me I wonder? _He thought with a sudden grimace. It would happen. He wasn't going to pretend that there would be a happy ending for them, love or not. In the end it all came back to the same thing...status. She was of high birth, and he was not worthy of her. If she would become Queen in the North, no one would ever bend the knee to him as her king. Nor would he want to be a king if it was offered. Too many demands, and not enough perks. People also wanted a king who told them what they wanted to hear, and he'd just speak the terrible truth. No, he would never be loved enough to be a king in any land. Bugger that.

"San...Aras, look!" Sansa caught her slip quickly as she brought his attention to something in the distance. Something was burning, but he couldn't tell what. It was fairly large, and in the middle of the Goldroad. They would not be on the road for too long after this, for they had needs to cross the vast plains of The Reach in order to reach the Roseroad which would take them the rest of the way to Oldtown. He had a bad feeling about what was up ahead, and suddenly wished that they had left the Goldroad a while back. It had piqued her interest though and he knew that they could not turn back now. The only path was forward. With a small kick, his courser responded and picked up the pace.

"Stay back. I'll let you know when it's safe to come forward with a whistle," he halted her when they had gotten closer to the mess ahead of them. There was movement ahead that was certainly human, and he wasn't about to rush into this head first. Sansa nodded, looking on with worry written on her face, but she said no words of protest. He spurred the horse onwards to see what he would make of this.

It didn't take long to reach the burning wreck of a wagon, or to see who had caused it. It was a small band of outlaws, and all four of them had the madness of starvation in their eyes. Two of them were carving pieces of the slain horse and eating them raw, right off the blade. The other had escaped, presumably, for the wagon needed two and the other was nowhere in sight. A man lay dead in the mud, his neck a mass of blood and grime. The weapon that had taken his life had been dull, and he hadn't died quickly.

The third man was busy with the wife of the dead man, and to Sandor's utter disgust he realized the man was having his way with a corpse. The bluish tinge on the face of the woman and the bruises around her throat suggested strangulation. A heavy grunt escaped the man as he finished, and then started laughing in a way that didn't suggest any sort of sanity left. _Hunger madness, no doubt_.

Sandor dismissed those three, for there was nothing he could do about them. It was the forth that he would deal with. The man was bigger then the rest, and he was currently returning from what appeared to be a chase. His face was beet red with exertion and he was panting heavily, but he had captured his quarry. A girl no older than six was struggling in his arms, fighting with everything she had in her tiny frame. She was biting and kicking, but it didn't seem to phase the big man in the slightest. Blood dripped from her knees, from where she had fallen, or been pushed.

Sandor dismounted and drew his sword. There was no telling how the courser would react to blood and fighting, and he wasn't about to test it out now. He approached the big man almost leisurely.

"You should be proud of such a catch. You must have had a tough time, for the way you're gasping for air" he grinned, his scars twisting horribly. The man may have been the biggest of the three, but he had nothing on Sandor. Still, he was no craven and met Sandor's eyes without hesitation.

"Bugger off, I caught 'er fair and square. She's mine to do as I want. Git yer own," the man spat at Sandor's feet. Quick as a snake his hand flew out and the hilt of his sword caught the outlaw in the nose. There was a satisfying crunch as his nose splintered and blood started pouring forth. He howled and dropped the girl. She landed heavily with a small cry. Sandor stepped forward as the outlaw clutched his nose with both hands and gave a quick slice with the sword. The fight was over before it began as the man collapsed from a severed neck.

Sandor looked at the other three, who had stopped moving to watch with a sordid type of detachment. He took a step in their direction and the other three scattered, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor...or maybe just not wanting to end up like their companion. Sandor wiped his sword clean, then picked up the dead man and tossed him on the burning wagon. No use leaving a corpse to rot...or be cannibalized. He did the same with the man who had his neck hacked open. He could not touch the woman though, for the girl he had saved was clinging to the dead woman.

Sandor looked at the tiny girl, crying softly and clutching her mothers pale, lifeless arm. Seven hells, I don't know how to deal with this. His gaze returned to where Sansa was and he sighed heavily before giving a whistle.

oOo

Sansa had seen him draw his sword from her spot along the road and for a moment she was scared for him. His fight was short, however, and when the men scattered she let out her breath in a quick rush. She hadn't been aware of holding it. When he whistled she rode to him quickly.

"Parents are dead, horses are dead, wagon is burned, and the outlaws are either dead or run off. She's all that's left," Sandor explained through gritted teeth. He did not look pleased about the situation. Sansa dismounted swiftly and went to the side of the small girl. She was a tiny thing with wide brown eyes and mousey brown hair that was an ugly tangle on her head. The clothes she wore were not elaborate, but they were not threadbare or too dirty. She was small, but not starving. Tears made two clean tracks down a soot covered face.

Sansa knelt in the snow beside the small girl who looked at her fearfully, eyes wide and breath coming in sudden hitches. For a while, they just looked at each other, but Sansa finally spoke.

"My mother was killed too."

The girl looked at her without saying anything, then looked down at the corpse she was clinging too. She slowly let go of the cold arm, then got to her feet, took two steps and flung herself into Sansa's arms. Sansa caught her and marveled at how good it felt to have those small arms around her neck. It made her miss Rickon. He would have been about the same age this girl was if he had lived.

Sansa turned to Sandor as she scooped up the girl and stood. His scowl told her that he knew what she was going to ask before she even opened her mouth.

"The food comes out of your share," he growled as he mounted again, clearly irked that this child was going to be joining them. Sansa smiled and helped the girl into the saddle before mounting behind her, as she and Sandor used to do. The girl twisted in the saddle however, and clung to her backwards, her small legs wrapping around her waist, and her head buried in her chest. Sansa stroked her hair with one hand, then gave the horse a kick to follow Sandor.

He may act angry and disgruntled, but she knew that he would have done the same thing, even if she hadn't been here. Otherwise he never would have bothered to save the girl from the outlaws in the first place. Sandor cared about a lot of things that he tried not to let on to. She rode up beside him.

"Thank you."

"Bugger your thank you's, this is going to be nothing but trouble."


	5. Story Transfer

Dear Readers,

First, I would like to apologize for my lack of updates to this story. Life, as they say, got in the way. I lost the spark, and probably the plot, somewhere along the way, and I never found it again. I feel horrible for this, as most of you loved this story, and I know what it's like to be in your shoes. It's a devastating feeling to not know where a story ends up, and for that, I am so, so sorry.

Now, onto the reason for posting this in the first place. I have officially abandoned this story...but it does not have to end here. If any of you lovely people are also authors, and want to take this from me, you can go to the link below. Someone has started a fanfiction adoption page, and I've given them the rights to take this story and run with it. If anyone decides to take this, I'll link to their fic within this one, so everyone can have a chance at finding out where the story is going!

Thank you for your kind words, comments, and encouragement. I wish I could have finished this for you, but the muse has left the building and got hit by a bus. I don't think she's coming back. I hope someone takes the bait, and takes this to places that I never managed to take it to.

-Rebel-of-Spades  
>(rebbawskaced)<p>

If you travel to Tumblr, and look up the user justadram, or use the tag asoiaf-fic-adoption, you can find where to volunteer to take over this story, or where to read it once it is taken over.


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